Crucible
by Seanchaidh
Summary: What is a crucible? To a scientist, it is a mere piece of experimental apparatus. An item into which perhaps unknown substances are placed, to be heated in a furnace that drives out all impurities until there is nothing left. Nothing but that which can stand the test of the fire.
1. Chapter 1

**Crucible**

**Disclaimer and author's note:**

This story comes from my own head, leading from the thought "Well, what the blazes _would_ it take for them to admit how they really feel?" after the car crash incident. The characters in the story, however, are sadly not of my creation and, with the exception of some minor, transient characters who will only appear in this story and not elsewhere in the legitimate canon books and TV shows, they belong wholly to the original author and/or scriptwriter who created them, and, of course, to the excellent actors who gave them life.

I also apologise for the following errors and issues which I know will occur at some point: firstly, for my lack of updates - writing is something I am only able to focus on in certain circumstances and everyday life must take precedence over unpaid works of the imagination; secondly, for my forgetfulness and lack of details such as canon characters' names and their back story in the canon - I generally prefer to have a handy box set of the series so far to refer to, but at present I have neither the spare funds to purchase one nor the time to watch it so I must rely instead upon my own memories and the internet for my research; thirdly and finally, for the various mis-types, missed words and incorrect spellings which shall undoubtedly appear, if not litter, the following piece of prose.

Finally, as to the content, this is wholly fleshing out an idea in my head that refuses to lie down and be pacified without being written. I shall try to maintain the canon characterisations, as this is, to me, the entire challenge of writing fanfiction, but I do ask you to bear in mind that this story will put characters in a situation they have never been in before, nor are likely to be, unless this goes the way of my Primeval stories and every other subsequent episode ends up containing a sharp note of de ja vu. Nevertheless, je ne regrette rien... Yet.

* * *

**Chapter One: Missed Opportunities**

It began one night a long time ago. Neither one of them had ever suspected anything like this would ever happen to them. For a start, they ended up waking up together. Secondly, and more importantly, they never caught the person who had drugged them into doing so.

Phryne Fisher woke up, groggily. She stared at the ceiling. It wasn't her ceiling. She couldn't quite place it. For a while, she lay there, letting the various thoughts of the night before seep back into her consciousness and swim into place. Eventually it came back to her. It was the ceiling of the hotel room that she had booked. A hotel room that she had stayed in, while she was searching down a murderer. Not just a single murderer, but a mass murderer. Someone who had orchestrated deaths during the war. Who had got behind enemy lines. Who had spied. Who had then come back... broken. Or perhaps they had been broken before? Who had begun murdering... people. Men. Women. Children even. With no rhyme or reason to the pattern. And yet she had found a pattern. She, and Jack. Together they had tracked down the fiend to this quiet little town in Northern Australia.

Jack.

His name brought a vague, groggy memory to her mind. There was nothing that she could place, but there was definitely _something_ she should remember.

She rubbed a hand across her eyes and thrust an arm out to the side of her. It connected. Then she remembered. Vague, fleeting moments, but nothing clear. And a lot missing.

They had been there, both of them, in that room. He hadn't been staying there. He hadn't even been staying in the same hotel. But they had met for dinner. They had ordered room service, so they had the privacy to talk without being overheard. The room service had been delivered. They had eaten. They had drank wine. They had talked about the case. Then everything seemed to be a bit of a blank.

There was a groan from the bed beside her, signalling that he was awake, just.

Slowly, gradually, he woke up. And swore.

Two hours later, they were standing on the pier of the tiny seaside town, trying to work out why neither one of them could remember the events of the night before. It was obvious that someone had drugged them. It was also obvious, to Phryne at least, that that someone must be the person that they were after. The 'how' was a mystery. It was certainly in the room service. But was in the food? Or was it in the wine? None of it was left to test. Or had there been some other intoxicating, stupefying gas released into the room? The latter was the least likely, they agreed.

They followed the trail, but the trail went cold. Whoever had drugged them had vanished, leaving precious little trace of themselves behind. Simply another dead body: that of a hotel waiter.

Then the whole case went cold. No new leads could be found anywhere. The murders stopped. The murderer disappearing into the night like smoke from a dying fire. They were forced to return home.

Weeks passed, and for some reason neither one could bring themselves to spend quite so much time in the company of the other. Cases that he was definitely going to be taking, _she_ avoided. Cases that he was almost certain she would be engaged upon, _he_ avoided. And so the weeks went by. Neither seeing anything very much of the other until, eventually, one day, one evening, there came a knock at Phryne Fisher's door.

It was Jack. His hat was gone, his hair uncharacteristically ruffled, his tie askew. She had never seen him look quite so flustered, except perhaps on that morning in the hotel room.

He was ushered into the sitting room and sat there, quite helplessly, on a chair, by himself, staring at his hands. Eventually, uneasy with the silence, she spoke.

"What is it Jack?" Phryne asked, looking over at him from the safe distance of the doorway. "Why are you here?"

"I need your help," he said.

"What is it? Just ask."

"I need you to investigate a case for me."

"_Me_?" Phryne's eyebrows rose and she stepped further into the room. "_You're_ the detective!"

"I can't investigate this one," Jack sounded shocked at the very words he was speaking. "I can't have anything to do with it! Nor should you, really," he said, his eyes wild.

"You're scaring me, Jack. What's happened?"

"I'm a suspect." Jack's brow creased momentarily in disbelief.

"_You_? How could _you_ be a suspect? What would _you_ do?"

"My wife's dead," Jack said simply, his eyes still fixed on his hands.

Phryne opened her mouth to say "ex-wife", as she normally did whenever she had to correct him, then saw the look on his face and stopped.

"What happened?" She asked instead, walking over and sitting down on the settee next to his chair.

"There was something, some..." Jack's brow creased again as he searched for the words. "Some accident, or... incident or... something. But it, it wasn't an accident," he stammered, "it was a murder. A double murder. Both her and her fiancé. They're dead. And her father thinks I did it!"

"Why would you kill your wi... Your ex-wife?" Phryne corrected herself. "She had already divorced you. What could you possibly gain?"

Jack looked up at her, his eyes agonised. "You _know_ what I would gain," he said. "You know I've never seen her as my ex-wife." Jack paused, his voice sinking to a whisper. "You know it would make me free."

Phryne stopped, holding his gaze steadily. "That's ridiculous, Jack," she said. "Anything you did not see yourself free to do after your wife had divorced you proves you have a high enough moral calibre not to go around murdering people for it."

"Nevertheless," he said, avoiding her gaze now. "Her father thinks I did it. There's two reasons, I suppose. She was on her way to change her will. She was going to make her fiancé the main beneficiary. I guess it was still me. So there's that too. And there's you."

An hour later, Jack was gone again. Gone into the night, dark as it was, on foot, claiming he needed the time walking to think. To mull over what had happened. To take it all in. To consider his options.

His options were clear to Phryne: he should stay here with her, or, since he seemed to think that would make matters even worse, with Collins or some trusted friend until all this was over and she could clear his name. He should not, under any circumstances, be wandering the streets alone. What if something else happened? He would have nobody who could vouch for him. Provide an alibi. He was already missing one for the murder itself.

They had gone over all the details Jack knew, which were not many, and all the possible reasons someone might want his ex-wife dead, which were even fewer. Phryne had to agree that, had she not know Jack, she would have suspected him too. But she did know him. She knew he could never do anything like this. Far more likely was the scenario in her mind where she was the murderess on his behalf - her moral compass was far more erratic than his. But had it been her, she would have made sure he had an alibi. Made sure nothing would have linked back to him and that his character was unimpeachable throughout the proceedings.

She was tired. She was always tired these days. It was winter and the nights were long, but there were no parties or evening outings to go to and there had been no dalliances or diversions. No affaires de coeur. Not since and not before. Not for a long time. Not since she had almost lost him, his friendship and companionship, completely. Not since she had realised... Why hadn't she realised sooner? How blind she must have been.

She dragged her body off of the settee and over to the stairs, pausing to give instructions to Mr Butler on when to send Dot up to wake her in the morning, before taking herself up to bed. Her mind would be clearer for a night's sleep, she thought. At least as clear as it ever was these days. A fog had seemed to come down recently, clouding her thoughts and making it difficult to focus. She had to be able to focus now, for him. For Jack. He had saved her so many times, now he was relying on her to save him. Relying on her. Her, not his colleagues in the police force. Her heart lifted at the thought that he still trusted her so much. Then sank as she remembered that she was one of the reasons he was suspected in the first place. Had she done this to him? Blackened his character so much to the onlooking world? And yet there were two reasons he was suspected. The will and her. The idea that he would kill anyone in cold blood was alien to her. She couldn't link the events and the person together as her mind processed the facts. But that any divorced man would kill his wife for her money was far more logical and plausible a theory than that he would kill her to be with someone else. Not when they were divorced and she already engaged to another. And yet that was the explanation he had chosen to present to her first. That was the reason he was suspected, in his mind, more so than the other. Neither theory made much sense when her own wealth was included in the equation. He had no need to kill her. Romantically, he was legally free to do as he wished, and had been since the papers were signed. Financially, if he needed anything, all he had to do was ask. Not that he would, of course. That same honour that had kept him true to his wife even after she had left him would certainly prevent him from asking anyone for monetary aid, especially not the woman whom the world, it seemed, supposed him to be romantically involved with.

With thoughts, theories and dozens of unanswered questions circling her brain, Phryne found her way to her bed and dropped, wearily, into a fitful and restless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for all the reviews and kind words. I will do my best to update regularly, but working 12 hour days teaching and building the new curriculum does tend to take a toll on my creativity. I hope I shall get another chapter done before Christmas.**

* * *

**Chapter 2 - Laying the Foundations**

When Phryne Fisher awoke the next morning, to the soft sound of Dot entering with a tray of tea and toast, she was still tired. For all that she seemed to have slept soundly, she still found her body aching and bone weary. She groaned as she sat up, drawing the tray towards her while Dot rearranged pillows at her back.

"Are you all right, Miss?" Dot queried, her face genuinely concerned. "You don't look too good."

"I don't feel it, Dot," Phryne replied wholeheartedly. "I dare say it's just some winter bug."

Noting a sudden movement on the part of her companion, Phryne looked up. Dot looked almost as petrified as when she had had to answer the telephone that first day they had met.

"Oh, don't worry, Dot, I'm sure it's nothing. There have been no serious outbreaks in the city. If it gets any worse I shall bully Mac into prescribing me some of Mr Fleming's new wonder pills. She maintains they don't work on coughs and colds, but I can't see the harm in trying."

"Sorry, Miss," Dot shrugged. "It's just, well, I remember the influenza running though our street when I was little. Almost every household lost someone, some more than one. We were lucky."

"I remember," Phryne nodded. "I was still in France when the Spanish Flu epidemic swept across Europe. One of the girls I knew caught it and died within a week! I was lucky then too."

She drew a hand across her mouth to stifle a yawn. "I'll go and see Mac, Dot, I promise."

When the door closed again, Phryne turned her attention to the breakfast tray. She was ridiculously tired, but she still felt ravenous. She shrugged.

"Feed a cold, starve a fever," she muttered, picking up her cup of tea.

When Phryne finally exited her front door that morning, she did so cursing her sluggishness. She had already dispatched Cec and Bert with instructions to find out all they could about the murdered couple's last movements, now it was her turn to begin the hunt. But where to start? She could go and talk to Sanderson, but she didn't think she'd be made very welcome. Right now, she had to assume that, wherever Jack was persona non grata, so too was she. Even more so in the house of the man who would know exactly what she was doing there, and who had the most reason to hinder her.

Sanderson had never struck her as a particularly hotheaded man, but grief made people do strange things and it would only take the vaguest hint for Jack to pick up on the fact that he, however insensible the idea may be, was suspected.

Of course maybe there was more than just empty theory on Sanderson's side, she thought, pausing as she arranged herself behind the steering wheel. Jack had plenty enemies in this town who would, she was sure, like nothing better than to see their tormentor be hauled away for a murder of his own. A double murder no less. And clues weren't that hard to place.

xxxx

Jack leant against the railing overlooking the Yarra. He hadn't been there all night. He had spent most of the past twelve hours walking. Not looking where he was going, but merely letting his feet take him where they would. At one point they had taken him to her, and he had asked her help. He recalled, with only a little difficulty, sitting in her house, letting the words tumble out of him, unburdening his soul. And, for a time, the weight had lifted. Now it was back, and back with a vengeance. Now it was not only his head in the noose, but hers as well. He knew that investigating his case would be dangerous, and that she more often ran towards danger than away from it, but was it fair to ask that of her? To send her into battle on his behalf? What man would do that? A wry smile twisted one corner of his mouth as the words "A man who knew Phryne Fisher!" floated through his brain.

He lifted his head to the rising sun. It was time he found his way home. He knew where he was and how long it would take to walk the distance, but he still ignored the few cabs that passed him by. When he finally did reach his door, the winter sun was shining brightly overhead. He turned his key in the latch, pushed the door open and stepped inside. And stopped.

Something was most definitely not right. Even in his distracted state, his policeman's instinct started setting off alarm bells. There was nothing visibly out of place. Nothing he could spot, anyway, amid the gathering clutter. But there was something. Something odd that irked him and nudged at the back of his brain saying "someone's been here" over and over.

He ran a practised, dispassionate eye over the room, ignoring the fact that it was his own and looking for any signs, however small, of disturbance. Carefully, he stepped into the room, watching where his feet landed and his coat brushed. He could find nothing out of place. A movement in the air as he passed the closet made him freeze, then turn. He caught a momentary glimpse of a dark clothed figure before something hit him hard on the head and he fell into darkness.

xxxx

"Mr Sanderson is not receiving visitors at the moment, ma'am," the elderly Butler bowed and tried to close the door. It took a moment for him to work out why he could not. Finally he spotted the well-heeled foot wedged between the door and the frame and sprang back with a yelp. It was a lady's well-heeled foot, after all.

"I am not here sit and drink tea with Mr Sanderson," Miss Fisher intoned with authority. "I am here to try to find out who murdered his daughter and future son-in-law."

Making use of the Butler's sudden backward movement, she pushed open the door and showed herself in to the grand house. It didn't take her long to find Sanderson. With all the commotion from the hallway, he found her fairly quickly.

"My condolences, Deputy Commissioner," she began, her tone softening at the older man's face, which seemed to have aged a decade since they had last crossed paths. "We need to have a chat."

"You are not welcome here, Miss Fisher," Sanderson spat. "Haven't you caused enough damage in my home already?"

"You don't seriously tell me you think it was Jack?" Miss Fisher asked, sidestepping any question of her causing 'damage'. "Not now that you've had time to think about it, surely?"

"I don't know what to think," the Deputy Commissioner wailed. "My little girl is gone!"

The phrase hit her like a punch in the gut, dredging up memories of her sister and of her family's grief. She pushed them back down again: no time for that now.

"I know," she said, as gently as possible. "And I would like to help find out who killed her. Who the real criminal is."

Sanderson shook his head wearily and walked away into the salon. She followed and watched as he sat down and began reciting, his eyes dull and lifeless.

"Two days ago, your lover was standing in this very room," Miss Fisher opened her mouth to rebuke Sanderson's explicit assertion, then let his description of Jack stand. It was his witness statement. She had to accept the facts as he had observed and understood them, not as she would have liked him to. "He had heard that Rosie and her fiancé had set a date. He brought them a bottle of wine to celebrate. Nothing fancy, just one he knew Rosie liked. Everything started off amicably enough. Rosie sent the butler down to the cellar with the wine and the maid off to make tea for the two of them. I wasn't there: I was on the daybed in the other room. I've been ill of late. Rosie probably thought I was asleep. I wasn't. I heard them, you know. Heard every word. She told him it was about time you two set a date yourselves. He blew up at this. Trouble in paradise, I thought. But then he started going on about how you weren't the marrying kind, and that he still felt married himself, even after the divorce and everything. They argued about it. I couldn't tell what they said exactly, because the voices were too fast and jumbled."

"You're sure they were arguing about Jack's love life?" Miss Fisher asked hesitantly, choosing her words with care. "There's nothing else they could have been speaking about?"

"Like what? I heard the start of the conversation well enough," Sanderson spat. "It was the mention of you that tipped the scales!"

The image of herself walking through Jack's life, tipping piles of paperwork onto the floor and knocking over vases and chairs and people without so much as a backward glance sauntered through Miss Fisher's mind. Had she really had that much of an impact? On Jack himself, maybe, but on his life? His job? His family and friends? She shook her head and put her little notepad away, the basics of Sanderson's statement still freshly scrawled.

"What makes you think the will had anything to do with it?" Miss Fisher asked Sanderson. "You didn't mentioned that when you were describing the argument."

"Rosie told me later," Sanderson nodded. "She said she had mentioned it while they were talking, but the way she said it made me think it had come up during the argument. She said he had seemed surprised that she hadn't already changed it. Encouraged her to do so straight away. She'd agreed, and told him she'd make an appointment with her lawyer for the first day Sidney got home. He had been away on business."

"And Jack seemed happy with that?"

"Rosie never said," Sanderson shook his head, heartfelt weariness weighing it down like a chain. "I guess he didn't say if he cared either way. Maybe she didn't care if he cared. I don't know."

Unable to watch the Deputy Commissioner's heart breaking, Miss Fisher took herself away into the hall. The ever-present butler met her and answered her questions willingly, providing little more information than his employer and, she suspected, nothing more than he had already told the official investigators. Nevertheless, she asked him to show her where the bottle had been since its entry to the house and until its arrival in the presence of the deceased.

Notepad in hand once more, she followed the butler through the hall and down into the world of the servants, pausing at the kitchen and then butler's pantry, where the bottle had remained for several minutes while the butler had retrieved the cooking brandy from his locked cabinet for the cook, and discussed the shortage of said brandy and the sudden occurrence of said shortage. A new bottle of brandy had been added to the supplies list. The cook had left with the remains of the old, grumbling about the resultant state of her pudding for that evening. The butler had locked his cabinet, retrieved the wine bottle, locked his pantry door behind him and proceeded to the cellar. The cellar door also bore a lock, the key of which was in the sole keeping of the butler, apart from the key the master had, of course, and that lock had been secure when the butler arrived at the cellar. He had unlocked the door, entered and spent some five minutes finding the ideal spot for the wine. Once placed into a rack, the butler had left the wine bottle and the cellar, locking the door behind him, and had seen neither again until retrieving the wine on that fateful afternoon.

"Did you not have to choose wine to serve with dinner?" Miss Fisher asked, pencil poised above the pad. "In fact there were two dinners between Inspector Robertson's visit and Ms Sanderson's sad and untimely demise were there not?"

"I had already selected the wine for the evening, madam," the butler replied, "and as the master was unwell, he only drank water. Miss Sanderson is, was, not a copious drinker, madam, and she instructed me to serve the remainder of the bottle on the second evening. It was already fully decanted as I had, at one point, believed that Mr Robinson might have been dining with us that evening."

"Why did your mistress call for the new bottle of wine to be opened, then on the afternoon of Mr Fletcher's return?" Miss Fisher asked, ignoring the acid in the butler's voice when Jack's name was mentioned. There was no doubting what he believed!

"I believe they were celebrating, madam," he replied. "Mr Fletcher had returned home with some good news. As there was not much of the wine in the decanter left, Miss Sanderson asked me to fetch a new bottle. She suggested the one that Mr Robinson had presented her with."

"Not much left? I thought you said, Rosie wasn't a big drinker?"

"I poured Miss Sanderson a small glass at dinner each night and left the decanter on the sideboard," the butler verbally shrugged. "I presume she topped up her glass after I was dismissed for the evening."

Little more could be wrung from any of the servants. Nobody could remember seeing the bottle. One bottle of wine is much like another, after all. Everybody confirmed the butler's movements, as far as they were able. Nobody contradicted anything. The entire evening had been wrapped up in a nice, neat package and handed to Miss Fisher without any argument. It reminder her of a picnic hamper she had once been given back in her Paris days.

The only problem was that, no matter how good the hamper had looked from above, in its nice neat packaging, once it had been opened up all that she had seen were ants, everywhere!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Questions Unanswered**

**A/N: I have now seen "that" episode and it seems this is now going to be an entirely AU fic. I can live with that. For a change, I had actually recorded my idea on my phone voice memos before starting chapter 1, just in case I forgot where I was going. Turns out... Well: I'm changing nothing in light of that episode, so we shall see. **

**P.S. Please forgive any typing errors: I'm a dyslexic who writes like Hemingway and forgets to edit!**

XXXX

A sharp knock woke Phryne Fisher the next morning. Dreams of a grief-stricken, irate Sanderson, a dead Rosie, a dead Jack, all oozed out of her mind as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up, calling to Dot to enter.

The door burst open, a red-faced Hugh Collins, too panicked to stand on ceremony, stood in the open doorway, clinging to the doorframe for support, his white knuckles contrasting sharply with his dark uniform. His breathing told her that he had been running and, even now, it interrupted his barely coherent demands.

"You... have to come... Miss Fisher," Hugh spat out, gulping air into his burning lungs. "The Inspector... He's gone!"

"Gone?" Phryne's eyebrows shot up in surprise and concern. "Hugh, what do you mean? He can't have just vanished! He wouldn't!"

"Commissioner..." Hugh gulped more air like a stranded fish, "sent me... to bring him in. But... when I got there... nobody home. Whole place cleared."

Phryne's eyes darted about the room for a moment, her brain processing the information, making plans.

"Dot, take Hugh downstairs," she said, the air of command returning to her voice. "Tell Mr Butler to make some toast and marmalade to go: we'll be breakfasting on the job today. See if you can find Bert and Cec too. Send them round the ports and stations asking after a man of Jack's description. I'll be down as soon as I've dressed."

"Yes, Miss." Dot curtseyed slightly and dragged Hugh out of the room, waiting until the door had closed behind her to start berating him for his lack of decorum.

Phryne slid out of bed, fully awake now, and hurried through her morning ablutions in the en suite bathroom. It took her less than 10 minutes to drag on some suitable clothes and apply powder, lipstick and eye makeup. Hugh was still sipping his first cup of tea, while Dot hovered nearby with the pot, when Phryne made it downstairs to the kitchen. She picked up at slice of toast, ready for her, and gulped down a cup of tea while Dot bundled up the rest of the breakfast in a napkin.

The slice of toast was only just finished as the trio reached the Hispano. They scrambled into the vehicle, Hugh holding the door open for Dot and climbing into the back seat beside her. No sooner was the door closed behind him than the car roared away from the kerb and headed in the general direction of the Inspector's rooms.

The streets were quiet. At least quieter than the Hispano would usually see them. Carters and delivery boys hurried by. The trio sped past. Hugh would normally have called it a dangerously fast pace. Now it seemed too slow. Trees blurred past them. Houses followed. They were entering a different part of the city. The landscape changed. Colours darkened. Streets narrowed. Hugh watched. Eyes noting each street. Body recognising each corner.

"Here!" Hugh's voice rang out. The car slammed to a stop, brakes screeching in protest.

They exploded from the car like shrapnel from a shell, barely half as fast, but twice as dangerous. The door opened inward to Phryne's pounding fists. She pushed past the startled face within and headed straight for the stairs, following Hugh's directions and calling Jack's name. A sudden silence made Hugh and Dot find an extra reserve of speed to catch up. She was standing at Jack's open doorway. The room was empty.

Hugh felt the temperature drop.

"Constable Collins, is this how you found the room when you arrived earlier?" Miss Fisher's efficient, clipped tones rang out in the waiting hallway.

"Yes, Miss," the young policeman kept his answer short and to the point.

"Dot: go and find the landlady here," Miss Fisher ordered. "I want to know everything she saw and heard over the past 48 hours."

"The past TWO days, Miss?" Dot queried, confused.

"Yes." Miss Fisher nodded. "Take her right back to before any of this began. Before the deaths of Inspector Robinson's ex-wife and her fiancé. I don't want to miss anything."

"What can I do?" Collins asked as Dot hurried off.

"Interview everyone else in the building, starting with those residing closest to Inspector Robinson's rooms. I'm sure Dot can lend a hand when she finishes with the landlady, but I get the feeling she might be a while. Other than that, keep everyone out of my way."

Collins nodded and turned to the onlooking residents, shooing them gently back to their own rooms with instructions to stay there until called for. Behind him, Miss Phryne Fisher, Lady Detective, knelt down and extracted a small, powerful, hand lens from her pocket.

There was a trace of mud on the lower doorframe. Mud from someone's instep, not taken off by the doormat. Nothing identifiable about it: just everyday city mud.

There were tiny scratches around the keyhole. Could be a sign of lockpicks. Could have been Jack when they went through that rough patch and he drank too much. They looked recent though, and that particular argument had been a good few weeks ago now.

There was no scraping or splintering of the doorframe. Anyone who had opened this door had done so by stealth or with permission.

The floor was clean. Very clean.

Miss Fisher rose and made her way into the room.

The bed, single and with standard bedding, was made neatly: its covers tucked in under the mattress and giving a clear view of the floor beneath it.

The shelves were empty. So was the nightstand.

The drawers of the nightstand, dresser and washstand were removed and checked from all angles. They were empty and unblemished.

The wardrobe was empty. There was nothing behind it or any of the other moveable items of furniture.

The cupboard was empty and unlocked, its key in the lock.

When Dot returned to report back and receive further instruction, Miss Fisher was flat on her stomach, inching her way across the floorboards.

"Nothing of much use, Miss," Dot summarised. "I've got it all written down though. It seems the landlady was called away to visit an ailing maiden aunt, Miss, but when she got there, she found nobody had sent for her. It was late, so she stayed over at her aunt's and returned this morning just before Hu... Constable Collins arrived."

"That's interesting, Dot," said Miss Fisher, pausing in her scrutiny of the floorboards. "How was she called away?"

"Telegram, Miss," replied the younger woman, reaching into her purse and withdrawing a folded piece of paper. "And it seems she had the presence of mind to keep it!"

XXXX

Jack Robinson felt a vague awareness swim into his grasp, then disappear again like a skittish reef fish. It was the awareness of darkness, of a small space with unseen walls resting, unmoveably, nearby. Quietly, silently, the darkness swallowed him up again.

XXXX

"This tells us nothing," sighed Miss Fisher, handing the telegram back to Dot. "A telegram could have been sent by anyone. All they had to do was send it from the right place and our noble landlady would have been none the wiser."

"We could go down there and see if the clerk remembers who sent the telegram?" Dot hazarded.

"Maybe once we've finished here," Miss Fisher sighed, lowering herself to the floor again. "Right now, I'm more interested in what the people in this building heard or saw last night. Go and find Constable Collins, Dot. He'll tell you whom he has and hasn't spoken to yet."

"Are you sure you don't need me here, Miss?" Dot asked, watchiing her employer shrewdly.

"Quite sure," Miss Fisher answered. Dot's footsteps slowly vanished into the distance without another word.

The floor was large, wooden and covered only by a small rug by the side of the bed. This was easily examined. The floor itself was not.

Each plank of wood was examined separately and in minute detail. It took time. It took dedication. It was soon going to take a perfectly good blouse and trouser set.

By the time she had reached the floor by the cupboard door, both Hugh Collins and his intended were waiting patiently in the hallway by the door. This meant that they were both present to hear the quiet, short gasp from the far side of the room."

"What is it, Miss?" Dot called, her fingers weaving themselves between her beau's as she waited for an answer.

"Blood," was the tiny reply, almost inaudible.

Letting go of Dot's hand, Constable Collins stepped forward into the rooms. "Where?" Hugh asked, his voice shaking.

"Between the boards," Phryne replied, her voice breathless.

"Let me see?" Collins lowered himself to his knees beside the lady detective and followed her gaze.

"Here," said the trembling voice again, an equally steady finger pointing to a darkened patch of wood and the gap beside it.

Collins removed a small bag from his pocket and scraped a sample of the wood into the bag with his penknife.

"I'll send it away to be tested," he said. "Have you found anything else?"

"Nothing," said the small voice. Not a thing. Not even the slightest sign he was ever here!"

"We don't know anything yet, remember, Miss Fisher," said Constable Collins.

"We know he existed!" Miss Fisher's voice seemed to rise in temperature. "And we know he is innocent!"


End file.
